7 Days
by Rainnboots
Summary: Dean's final week, from Sam's perspective. AU to NRFTW.


**Authors Note:** This isn't my first story, but the first time I've ever posted on here. Feels a little odd being on the other side of the words, but eh, I'll get used to it. And this was written _way_ before NRFTW. I mean way before.

**Reviews: **Crack, man. Pure crack. NO FLAMES. Constructive criticism is accepted (and appreciated).

**Disclaimer:** The usual; I own nothing you recognize, not making any money, blah blah blah...

Read and enjoy!

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When it was seven days away, the day went normally. We went on a salt and burn, out to lunch, then slept the rest of the day. We talked as much as we would on any other day, Dean joked, got the number of our waitress, and we ended up laughing as we talked in our beds of the dark motel room. Before we fell asleep he said "I love you, Sammy."  
I was surprised by it, he never really says that. Too chick-flick for him, but I said "I love you too, Dean."  
And he said I just I ruined it and made it gay. I laughed.  
It was a good day.

When it was six days away, Dean was sick. His head was throbbing so bad he could barely keep his eyes open, and his nose was too stuffed up and his lungs were filled with too much mucus to breath. He had a high fever and was couldn't stop shaking, but he wouldn't let me take him to a hospital. He said it was just some bug he caught; it would pass before tomorrow. So I let him lay in the back seat, wrapped up in blankets with my bag beneath his head, and let him bitch and moan and listen to his mullet rock without me complaining. There were times when he was sleeping that I would look back and watch for his chest to rise and fall to make sure he was still alive, his incredibly limited time cut even shorter by some stupid 'bug'. He mumbled in his sleep and I told him so, but he denied it. Before he fell asleep for the final time that night he said "I love you, Sammy."  
I told him, "I love you too, Dean."  
It was a good day.

When it was five days away, we fought. That's all we did, just fought fought fought. Over which crappy motel to stay in, which fast-food place to stop at, which music to listen too, which bed we would sleep in that night. Everything. We got into a fist fight over something else stupid and I almost knocked him out, he went to bed after fixing himself up in the bathroom then went to bed without saying anything else. I cried in the bathroom after he fell asleep because I hadn't apologized for hitting him, thinking he was mad at me. But he said he wasn't when I came back to bed, and I felt better. Right before I went to bed he whispered "I love you, Sammy." And I whispered it too, but I knew he didn't hear me.  
It was a good day.

When it was four days away, we spent the whole day laughing. Just laughing, Dean nearly crashed because we were in hysterics over everything. Dean was still somewhat sick, so he was a bit delusional and thought everything was funny; I couldn't help but laugh with Dean when he started, so that's how we spent our day. After our laughing fit in our beds, Dean let out a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. He said, "I love you, Sammy."  
I snorted and said, "I love you too, Dean."  
Then he started laughing again and I started laughing.  
It was good day.

When it was three days away, we were quiet. Just quiet, we didn't talk much. But it was a good quiet. Lots of stuff were said, even if we weren't speaking. We ate in silence and I researched a few things while we waited for the food, and texted jokes to each other a few times while we were eating. He didn't talk until we were in our beds, our eyes closed. He said, "I love you, Sammy."  
And I said, "I love you too, Dean."  
It was a good day.

When it was two days away, we remembered things. The time Dean set a motel room on fire, the time I was sick and run butt-naked out into the rain because I listened to Dean when he said it would make me better, the time Dean threw up on a cute girl in the fourth grade, the time we had to chase after the car after we had been playing in it and took off the brake. And then there were the things we didn't want to remember. The night Dad yelled and yelled at Dean because I had wandered off into the woods when he was supposed to be watching me, the night Mom died, the night Jess died, the night I left for college, the night I died. There was laughing and there were silent moments and there were a few subtle hands-over-the-faces to hide the tears we couldn't keep in. We remembered how we grew up wanting to live like normal kids, with a Mom and a Dad and a dog in a town with hundreds of friends, and how we know are somewhat thankful for growing up the way we did, because we know we wouldn't be half as close as we are if we grew up living a 'normal' life.  
After we had dinner at some diner where our waitress was beautiful, we both sat on the couch and Dean said to me, "Sammy?"  
And I said, "Yes?"  
"When I die, I want you to lay me at the crossroads, take my keys, and drive the opposite way as fast as my baby will let you."  
I was quiet, and tears were burning my eyes again.  
"Okay?" he said.  
"Okay," I whispered.  
"You have to promise me." said Dean. "Promise me, Sammy."  
So I promised, I promised to lay him at the crossroads and drive away as fast as his baby would let me. Then it was quiet. Dean, not wanting it to be so quiet anymore, told me how he remembered that he loved me before I was even born, and how he was so excited he would be able to show somebody everything he knew. Before I fell asleep, he said, "I love you, Sammy."  
And I said, "I love you too, Dean."  
It was a good day.

On the Final Day, it was everything day. We laughed, and we joked, and we were quiet, and we remembered things, and we fought, and we cried. Dean joked about how if I did anything to his baby, he'd break outta Hell and drag me back with him, and I laughed because I was scared I would cry if I didn't. And we were quiet because we were listening to Metallica and Dean told me to be quiet so he could hear one of his favorite bands for the last time. Then he listend to Highway To Hell and I felt tears welling up so I looked out the window and wiped them away. Dean remembered one time when we were in school in Michigan while Dad worked a long job and we were in that K-12 school and I was in the fourth grade, how one day that tubby George Skillman started pushing me around until finally I socked him in the face, got detention and had my recess privliges revoked for a week. Dean said how he watched it from the top of the jungle gym, and how cute I looked staring up at that son of a bitch and launching myself on him. He said he was proud, and I laughed again, because I was scared I would cry. As night came closer and closer with each passing mile, Dean continued to ramble on and on, about everything, as if afraid he would forget to tell me something before he died. And then he told me something.  
"Sam?" he said.  
I looked at him, not trusting my voice.  
"Remember when I was about twelve, and you had just eighth birthday?" he asked.  
I nodded.  
"And I had been yell-" Dean swallowed "-yelling at ya because you had asked about Mom?"  
I looked down at my lap, then nodded.  
"And I had pushed you and you started crying and your hand was bleeding?" said Dean.  
I nodded again.  
"And then I left you because I was just so Goddamn annoyed and upset?" Dean's voice was nearly breaking.  
I couldn't even nod, I just closed my eyes.  
"Then Dad had brought me back 'cause he found me walking on the side of the road then went and fixed up your hand and put you to bed and started yelling at me?"  
I rubbed my face.  
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry." said Dean. "I'm _so sorry_."  
I rubbed my eyes and sniffed.  
"I should'nt have yelled at you. I was just upset..." said Dean. He tried to chuckle. "Doesn't justify it much, does it?"  
I feebly smiled and looked at him. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and rubbed it. He sighed.  
"We should get going, huh?" he said, looking at the clock.  
I wanted to shout no, and tell him to go back, thinking maybe if we kept on driving farther away from the crossroads Dean wouldn't die. I looked at the clock as I tried to swallow the lump in my throat.  
"Yeah," The word came out in a pathetic whisper and Dean rubbed my shoulder again. He popped a tape into the tape player and started singing. He did that to cheer me up, he was so bad at it and he knew it would make me laugh. I did, I laughed so hard I thought I was going to pass out, and he finally had to stop singing because he was laughing too. Then the laughs quieted down and we leaned back in the seats, staring at the black road through the windshield.  
When the clock reached 11, I felt sick to my stomach. I felt color draining from my face and gripped the side of the door tightly.  
"Sammy?" said Dean, his eyebrows furrowing. "Sammy, you okay?"  
I swallowed, letting out a deep breath, and shook my head. Dean pulled the car onto the side of the road and I felt bile rising in my throat.  
"Sam, what's wrong?" his hand rested on my shoulder and I pushed open the car door, vomiting onto the gravel. Tears pricked the corner of my eyes and I heard Dean's car door open as I vomited again. I saw his boots carefully avoid the pile of sick. His hands rested on my arms.  
"Sam?" he said. "What's going on, what's wrong?"  
I couldn't speak, but I didn't need to vomit anymore. I let tears roll down my cheeks and drip onto the car seat.  
"I don't..." My voice was shaking and I whimpered. "I can't lose you."  
Within seconds of saying that Dean's strong arms were wrapped around me and I was sobbing into his chest, one of his arms making comforting circles on my back.  
"Hey, hey Sammy, I got ya." he said. "I got ya."  
I grasped him tightly and felt his cheek resting against my head. I felt my hair move, and his lips lightly grazing my scalp.  
"I got ya."  
So he held me, staring to hum a song that I loved and he hated. When he finished, he said, "I love you Sammy, and I always will."  
And I said, "I love you too, Dean, and I always will."  
He died, there, on the side of the road, holding me. He seemed to fall asleep, his breath slowing until it finally stopped and his body limped against mine. I took in deep breaths until I finally felt like I could drive while the tears still fell down my face and one hand clasping one of Dean's. I left him at the crossroads and drove the opposite way, the way he had told me too, with tears rolling down my face faster then ever. As I drove, in the rearview mirror I saw Dean rise up, a ghostly white, transparent Dean, as two people just like him appear at his sides. Mom and Dad. Dad clapped him on the back, the other shaking his hand, and Mom hugged him tightly. I saw Dean's mouth move faintly and suddenly his voice filled my ears, louder then any tape he could play.  
"I love you, Sammy."  
And I said, "I love you too, Dean."  
That was the day Dean was somehow spared from Hell's fate. The day he went to Heaven.  
It was a good day.

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